


A Day in A Life

by vitahni



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Actually tons of AU's, Domestic Sherlock, Fluff, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Saint, M/M, One Shot Collection, Pre-Slash, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:53:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4906234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitahni/pseuds/vitahni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'As John opened the door to 221B he became aware of several things. One - he couldn’t see two inches in front of his face, two - someone had obviously moved that counter because it definitely was not there before, and three - Sherlock was laying silently on the couch, his fingers steepled under his chin and a grimace painted across on his face.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in A Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is most likely going to be a collection of drabbles, requests, and ideas that I decide to do. i have no idea if this will be updated on a regular basis but I'll definitely try!

As John opened the door to 221B he became aware of several things. One - he couldn’t see two inches in front of his face, two - someone had obviously moved that counter because it _definitely_ was not there before, and three - Sherlock was laying silently on the couch, his fingers steepled under his chin and a grimace painted across on his face.

A tentative voice echoes through the silence of the flat, “Ah.. Sherlock? You alright, mate?”

No response. So it’s one of _those_ days again. Lovely.

John quickly shuffles through his mental catalogue of symptoms and decides that Sherlock was obviously suffering from his more and more common migraines and that this one seems particularly worse than usual. No matter. He knows what to do.

He goes to work in the kitchen, carefully preparing two mugs of tea and lighting a small candle to provide just enough visibility to pick his way across the flat and into the living room. He silently sets both mugs down and lifts the back of his flatmate’s head in order to make room for himself on the couch.

Settling himself in the small amount of space he created, John lays Sherlock’s head down in the center of his lap and slowly begins to massage his temples with deft fingers.

Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes snap open at the contact and narrow up at him, “I-John..? What are you doing?”

John answers with an easy smile, “Helping you, Sherlock. You’ll just have to deal with it for now. Sorry.” A small shrug accompanies his apology.

His flatmate shakes his head quickly, chocolate curls bouncing slightly against his forehead, “No.. I-uh.. That’s – err – perfectly alright.”

The sound of shifting fabric filters through the flat as Sherlock reaches over to grab his favorite (hasn't actually admitted it yet) blue mug, the one John had gotten him for Christmas the previous year, from the table and quickly takes to curling around the warmth while simultaneously leaning more into John with a contented sigh.

After a few moments, Sherlock’s breathing evens out and he falls asleep, curling farther into John’s side, much like a cat. John smiles softly down at his flatate and runs a hand through his best friends mess of curls before grabbing the mug from Sherlock’s long fingers and setting it back in its place on the table.

The blonde easily leans down to brush his lips against his flatmates forehead, careful not to wake him and murmurs a soft, “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

A few hours later, a soft humming fills the air as Sherlock attempts to stretch his long body out on the couch only to find that he has somehow pulled John down into the couch and that he is currently curled up against John’s side.

With his migraine fading, thankfully not showing signs of returning, Sherlock shifts his weight and pulls _his_ John closer to his side while wrapping a long arm around the smaller man’s torso and drifting back into sleep, his dreams centered around a certain blue-eyed blogger.


End file.
